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CHAPTER TWELVE

PHILLIPA

“ N o boyfriends?” Rattler asks. “You a fuckin’ virgin?”

After rolling my eyes at his too personal question, I turn my head toward him and counter, “Are you?”

He rears back. “What the fuck you talking about?”

Again, shrugging, I fire back, “Takes one to know one.”

Looking a bit like a virgin who’s been approached by a rake, Rattler goes red in the face, then slams his hand down. “Of course I’m not.” He glances around. “Any man around this table would vouch for that.”

Quick as a flash, I snap back, “That’s fine with me. I’m not homophobic, I’ll be making no judgement.”

There’s a second of silence, then denials come from all around, and Rattler’s voice is clearest. “I ain’t into men.”

I can’t resist. “Oh, forgive me,” I say sweetly and insincerely. “It’s just that you implied…”

“Didn’t imply nothing, bitch. And I’m happy to teach you how straight I am.”

I’m surprised at the low growl that comes from Saint. “Shut the fuck up, Rat.”

Touching my head, I wonder if I’ve got a traumatic brain injury, as I’m actually enjoying myself. While not maximum strength, the painkillers have taken the edge off my aches, and it’s fun teasing these men. To be honest, I’m more relaxed in their company than I can remember being before. Maybe it’s because they don’t know the meaning of airs and graces, and there’s no need to try to impress.

The men are still laughing at my inference about Rattler’s sexual persuasion when their prez makes an appearance. His presence is such that everyone, including me, looks up at his entrance.

Bullseye scowls, looks around, then says, “If everyone has finished with the entertainment, I need you in church.”

Church. I know that’s how these types of gangs talk about their meetings. For a moment, the investigative agent inside me wonders whether I’ll be allowed in, and whether I’ll be able to get any information… before I stop myself. That’s exactly why these men don’t trust me. I’ve not even been assigned to infiltrate their club, but I’m looking at opportunities. One whiff of what’s going through my head, and I’ll be killed as easily as swatting a fly.

My very existence is a threat to them. I wonder why I’m still alive. Why they hadn’t disposed of me the second they knew who I was.

For the first time I wonder about all the briefings I’ve had concerning one-percenter motorcycle gangs, the ones which say they treat women with no respect and shoot first and ask questions after. It’s almost as if they’re giving me a chance to prove – if I can - that I could be trusted to walk away from the club and keep their secrets.

I already know one. That they’ve got a hacker that the Secret Service Cybercrime Division would be very interested in finding out about.

Fuck! As the men drain their coffees and start piling out, I think again about what I’m up against. My employers will think I’m dead if their hacker is as good as they say. If I reappear, it will be one long slog to retrieve my life. And I wouldn’t be able to do that without an explanation of who altered the records. I couldn’t hide that the Kings of Anarchy were behind it.

The Kings will already be aware of that. It seems I’ve got very little chance of staying alive. The only way I could do it was to throw everything I had ever believed into the wind and accept this way of life. Become Saint’s old lady.

No way in hell. And I don’t have that choice. Saint’s made it clear he doesn’t want me.

All I can hope is that when they kill me, they do it fast.

As the men leave the room, Saint takes my good arm gently. “Come on.” He helps me up, and in what’s now becoming a familiar dance, hands me my crutch. “Got to get you settled up in my room.” Clearly, I’m not going to be invited into their meeting, nor allowed to have free roam of their clubhouse.

I notice him raise his chin, then jerk his head in the prospect’s direction. Leaving the kitchen, I hop alongside Saint as he leads me back to the stairs. By now, I’m unsurprised when he sweeps his arm around me, lifts me, and carries me up bridal style. Back on my feet, I resume my awkward forward motion until I stop in front of his door.

After he opens it for me, I step inside, having to admit that the thought of lying down for a while after this morning’s exertions is not unattractive.

Yesterday I’d been out of it, then in pain, shock, whatever you want to call it, and I hadn’t really taken in my surroundings. Now that I do, I see a king-sized bed which looks like it’s been recently made, the sheets clean and straightened, and the pillows propped up in an attractive way. I’m certain Saint hadn’t disappeared long enough to sort it. Not only that, but everything seems tidier, and stuff that had been lying around has now been put away.

He sees my eyes widen and smirks. “Got one of the bunnies to freshen the room up a bit.”

Bunnies, sweet butts, are names for the unfortunate women who get sucked into the MC life. Who think they’ve got no other option than to serve the members, whether on their backs or doing household tasks.

Suddenly, I feel icky at the thought of what I might have been lying in earlier. As if he can read my mind, Saint’s smirk broadens.

“You bled all over it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that wasn’t the only bodily fluid,” I murmur under my breath. But he hears me, and snorts as though I’ve said something hilarious.

There’s a knock at the door, and then the prospect enters. Saint swaps his attention from me to the prospect and points him to the comfortable-looking chair. “Heathen, sit. And you don’t move for nothing. You want a piss or shit? You get another prospect in here.”

Heathen snaps to attention, and if he’d saluted, I wouldn’t have been surprised. “Got it, VP.”

“And you,” Saint turns to me. “Lie the fuck down and get some rest.”

There are arguments worth having, and those that are not. And I need to heal, to strengthen to be able to fight them, so protesting won’t do anything to help myself. Hopefully, without looking like I’m giving in, I sit on the bed, shift up, then lie down, letting out a quiet sigh of thanks as I rest my aching head, the relief making me close my eyes.

My good arm being wrenched up and back brings me right back to reality, as does Saint handcuffing my wrist to the bedstead. “What the fuck?” Glaring at the man who’s entrapped me, I point my chin toward the prospect. “I’ve already got a jailer.”

Saint grins and leans down, whispering to me, “Can’t take risks with a woman of your training. You’d probably have him down and out in seconds.”

He’s seriously overestimating my abilities. Heathen might not yet be a fully patched member, but he’s clearly no slouch when it comes to lifting weights. His muscles bulge out of his tee, and his legs resemble tree trunks. I take it as a compliment that Saint thinks I can take him, but jangle the handcuff anyway.

“What if I need to pee?”

Saint straightens, hands something to Heathen, then walks to the door, pausing for a moment to look at me. “He’s got the key.” Then to the prospect, he adds, “Get another prospect up here if she needs to use the bathroom. I fuckin’ warn you, she gets free? You won’t be breathing to miss getting your patch.”

And with that death threat made in front of a government agent, the VP of the Arizona Kings leaves the room.

Leaning my head back, I close my eyes again. While everything in me wishes I could just give in to the sleep that’s calling to my aching brain and limbs, my mind won’t switch off. If I don’t get out of here, then my time on this earth will be measured in days, if not hours.

Still awake after a while, I stare at the prospect who’s sitting, arms crossed, gazing at a space on the wall just above my head as if it would be creepy to fix his eyes on a sleeping woman. When I speak, he jumps, as if not expecting me to be conscious.

“Why do you want to join the Kings?” I ask, interested in what makes him happy to obey their every instruction.

One glance at me, then he stoically returns to watching the paintwork above my head.

“I’m the innocent here,” I try to appeal to him. “I mean no harm to your club. I’ve become involved accidentally.” Thinking hard, I use the biggest guns that I have. “The Secret Service isn’t stupid, they’ll figure it out. They’ll be coming for me. If you let me go, I’ll keep quiet. I know Saint saved my life, so I’ll return that favour by staying quiet.”

This time, he doesn’t even look my way.

“What’s your real name, Heathen?” I’ve got to find some way to get him to relate to me.

He ignores me entirely.

I try to appeal to him in a number of different ways, but he won’t bend, even a little, and he utters no word to me. The only thing I can do in this situation is reserve my strength for the battle ahead. I lower my eyelids, this time more hopeful of being able to sleep, knowing rest will help me to heal.

Before I can drift into unconsciousness, a hesitant knock sounds on the door. This has an effect on Heathen, and he looks up. “Enter,” he barks.

I suspect he was expecting a fellow prospect, but the person at the door is a teenage youth. Heathen’s eyes widen as he jumps up.

“Ace! What the fuck are you doing here?” Heathen can’t hide how unhappy he is to see him.

As if he’d been running, the youngster answers with pants between each word, “I need to speak to Saint.”

“He’s in church. Now get out of here, kid.” Standing, Heathen tries to shoo him to the door.

But instead of leaving, the teenager’s eyes widen as they fall on me. “Hey, it’s you.” He steps forward with a grin. With manners that appear from somewhere, he holds out his hand as if to shake mine, then frowns as he realises one is confined to a sling and the other handcuffed to the metal bedstead.

He shakes his head and bounces on his feet as if my predicament doesn’t much bother him. Then with excitement, he exclaims, “It worked.”

“What worked?” I respond, curious that he seems to know about me.

His chest puffs out as he turns to Heathen. “Put on the TV. News channel.” Without waiting to check whether the prospect is following his instructions, he states, “Phillipa Owens has just been confirmed as dead.”

Ace. The recollection of his name makes everything fall into place.

“You’re the hacker?” I breathe, my eyes meeting his.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “There’s nothing to worry about now. They don’t suspect a thing.”

This kid has managed to do some high-level hacking. I’m torn between being professionally disgusted and personally impressed at what he’s pulled off. And while I’m thinking about it, Heathen found a news channel, and the headlines come on.

It’s not the first time I’ve been pictured as a lead story. Of course, I was there, front and center, when Adams was gunned down. It’s the reason I was driven off the road to start with. But I’d have hoped never to see the ticker tape across the screen saying, Secret Service agent, Phillipa Owens, is dead. Or to hear the newsreader saying how my car left the road, and there was speculation whether this was an accident or murder.

It’s surreal to see pictures of me in various stages of my life, and the repetition of the conspiracy stories surrounding me. How the hell had they found someone who’d gone to school with me? But they had, and dear old Geoff was wringing his hands, telling everybody what an amazing woman I was, and how much I’d be missed. He’d been one of the worst bullies, picking on the studious girl. I wonder how much the station had paid him. I hoped it wasn’t a lot.

With a sense of disbelief, I listen as they reveal the gruesome details, how my burned body was only identified through my dental records and the cross-match of the DNA. My eyes flick toward Ace, who’s watching avidly, wondering who the hell this kid is who seems to be able to get into any database he wants.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prospect furiously texting, but turn my attention back to the screen, It’s mesmerising to hear people talking of me in the past, extolling my virtues, while also hinting I might have been part of some heinous crime, the conspiracy theorists that is. Of course, killing me couldn’t be condoned, but perhaps there was some understanding for the people who’d maybe run me off the road.

The force with which the door bangs open makes me jump. Immediately, my attention is off the screen and onto the furious men who’ve entered.

“Get out!” one of their lead officers screams, his finger pointing at Ace. “Get the fuck out of here,” he repeats while holding the door open. With a quick apologetic glance my way, the teenager ducks under his arm and disappears into the night. The biker steps forward, his eyes blazing fire. “What’s the boy said?”

I was going to respond, “nothing”, but Heathen gets in first. “Freak, he basically told her he was the hacker.”

Freak points his finger at me. “You’re fuckin’ dead.” His next action shows it’s not an idle threat as his hand reaches behind him and reappears with a gun.

Time slows. I futilely try to scramble up the bed, but even if I weren’t handcuffed, there’s no way I can escape the bullet that’s coming my way. I inhale deeply, taking in what I expect to be my final breath, my last thought is that I hope he’s accurate, as I’ve had enough pain over the last twenty-four hours.

He aims…

Ace runs back through the door and pushes Freak out of the way. “No, Dad. I won’t let you do it.” His eyes blaze. “Why the hell did you get me to make it look like she was dead if you’re just going to kill her anyway.”

“Get out of here, kid.”

“No.” Ace stands his ground. Well, actually, he gains some, having moved closer and positioned himself between me and his father.

Not knowing their relationship, I can see things from Freak’s side. His teenage son, who doesn’t look like he’s completed puberty yet, has got inside government systems that by rights not even the best IT specialists in the world can access. The systems are constantly stress tested, but somehow this kid, Ace, has found a back door or overridden all the fail-safes. He’s a fucking genius, and I’d be the first to admit that.

If the Feds found out about him, I even doubt he’d do prison time. In fact, he’d probably be set for a job for life. Which is probably just as bad. Especially considering who his father is. Who, it’s also guaranteed, he’d definitely never see again.

Raising my free hand as much as I’m able to, limited by the sling it’s still supported by, I try to reason with the man who I now see wears the word Enforcer on his cut. “Freak, I won’t say anything. Even if I get out of here, I promise I’ll keep his secret.”

“A promise from a Fed is worth nothing,” Freak spits. His eyes narrow, full of disdain. “And if you reappear, someone’s going to want to find out who altered your records.”

He’s so goddamn right, I can’t contradict him. Perhaps being faced with imminent death for the second time in as many days makes me reevaluate what I want out of life fast. “Perhaps I don’t want to reappear.” My voice is only just above a whisper.

Suddenly, another man appears at the door. Saint rushes in, taking Freak by surprise, he disarms him by karate chopping his weapon out of his hand, before picking it up and taking possession of it. “What the fuck?”

He might have lost his gun, but an evil-looking knife immediately appears to replace it in a split second. Equally as fast as his VP, he turns the tables and has him up against the wall with the blade at his throat. It’s an impasse. Saint’s got his gun pointed at him. The only outcome is mutual destruction.